


All His Suits Are Torn

by SilentSinger



Series: The Cricket Chronicles [5]
Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Blasphemy, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Hate Sex, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Sex Doll, blatant disrespect of the dennis doll, the vile defiling the vile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 02:10:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16379414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/pseuds/SilentSinger
Summary: Cricket has his way with the Dennis sex doll. That’s pretty much it.Don’t wanna be, anyone who would wanna know me.





	All His Suits Are Torn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rissalf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rissalf/gifts).



> This is utterly abhorrent. I’m sorry. I think.

When the highlight of a man’s day can include such wonders as finding a half-eaten ham and cheese croissant that hasn’t gone mouldy, and finding out that Eddie “Monster Cock” Richard is out of town for a while and therefore won’t be tearing apart your petite orifice for the foreseeable, it’s safe to say that life could most certainly be better. For Rickety Cricket, these unprecedented yet fortunate events were merely a precursor to what he now considers to be one of the luckiest days of his entire rotten existence.

He’d found it outside Mac’s place. From a distance, with only one functional eye, and considering the alleged liberty caps he’d just ingested (because it’s highly likely that rat bastard Jeremy Meyers sold him powdered shiitake covered in paint thinner again), he almost thought it was Dennis himself, just chilling in a dumpster. As much as Cricket would pay to lay his eyes upon such a delightful spectacle, he’s even more elated upon closer inspection to discover that it’s a Dennis-shaped, anatomically correct rubber sex doll, with one of the finest goddamn blow-job mouths Cricket has ever been privy to. It doesn’t take much, if any, deliberation before Cricket scurries off in the opposite direction, his life-sized find hoisted upon his shoulder like a rescued damsel in distress – one who is unlikely to receive a fairytale ending.

****

It really is a striking likeness. It’s evident that the hellacious creation has been used recently and left to rot; from each of fake-Dennis’ openings there exists the telltale mushrooms-and-bleach aroma of dried semen, and his (probably oversized) perma-boner is less than pristine. It’s not like Cricket is fussy, but after some contemplation and after punching the arrogant cunt in his arrogant-cunt face several times in the interests of foreplay, he decides upon a fitting method of retribution – which is no less than Dennis Reynolds deserves, when your name happens to be Matthew “Rickety Cricket” Mara.

He props Dennis up against a wall with ‘ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO GIVE BAD HEAD’ spray-painted upon it in luminous green, and surveys his surroundings. His choice of locale is one of the few places where his intentions towards silicone-Dennis will go unnoticed, a place not-so-affectionately dubbed by the degenerates who frequent it as “Spooge Alley” – a venue where the only price is your dignity and the payment is whatever will get you through the night. Cricket has spent many of his waking hours here. It’s reasonably quiet right now; there’s a guy wearing no pants and jerking off into a Styrofoam cup about ten feet away, and over by the butcher’s shop dumpster there’s some lucky recipient getting head from what appears to be Toothless Jones, from here. There’s a reason that son of a bitch is so popular. Regardless, even if this place were busier it’s not like anybody would bat an eyelid. What happens in the alley stays in the alley.

Cricket unzips his pants and ponders his plan of action while lazily stroking himself to full attention. The possibilities are endless, and there’s such an inherent wrongness about this no-holds-barred opportunity that ignites Cricket’s senses, putting him in mind of a time long ago when his inexperience and naivety still had him believing in a higher power. Newly homeless Matthew Mara had clung to a few mementos of his previous life: his clerical garb (which became a little less presentable with each passing day); several changes of underwear; and his old King James Bible (while not approved by the Catholic Church, had always been Matthew’s favourite interpretation due to its delightfully florid use of language), which had belonged to his great grandfather and had been given to him after he’d taken his vows. After having his legs broken by gangsters, he’d retired his priest attire and kept it with his meagre stash of possessions, choosing instead to wear whatever he found in the nearest trash can, or unattended washing line. The Bible, on the other hand, was a different matter. To begin with, he’d read passages to those around him who cared to hear them, had nothing better to do, or were simply sober enough to listen. Occasionally, he’d run his fingers down its mottled leather spine, and inhale the comforting musty scent of its pages. On his darkest nights, he’d sleep with it cradled to his breast like a child with a cherished stuffed animal. Eventually, along with his faith, his fondness waned, and the Bible became little more than a three-pound hindrance. It reeked of outdated morals and decay, but at the very least it provided a more-than-adequate surface to snort a line from, and its pages proved excellent for rolling a joint in a pinch. He even used them for mopping up ejaculate, or wiping his backside, on occasion. There was an intoxicating sense of liberation that arose from the contemptuous destruction of a part of his life once held so dear.

Of course, Cricket has never held Dennis Reynolds even remotely dear. Nevertheless, as he regards the doppelganger – as dead-eyed and emotionless as its flesh-and-blood counterpart – the desire to violate this egocentric effigy beyond all reason fills him with a sense of hard-earned entitlement. This is more than simple one-upmanship now. This is unadulterated, burning hatred. Oh, this will be _fun._

He reaches into his back pocket and retrieves his trusty seven-inch switchblade. He’ll be fucked if he even remembers where he got the damn thing, but it’s been an invaluable companion to him for several years now. A homeless person without a weapon of some description is like pancakes without maple syrup; it’s just goddamn illogical. A few feet away, Styrofoam-cup guy finishes up and takes off in the opposite direction, his ass as bare as the day he was born.

Of course, Cricket could fuck fake-Dennis’ mouth or his asshole – and perhaps strangle the not-life out of the motherfucker while he does so. But it’s too tame. Too vanilla. Not a fitting punishment at all, considering. And while that rogue chocolate lab may have been the cause of his cunted left eye, without Dennis and the rest of his shit-sucking entourage, he’d never have been in that situation in the first goddamn place. Besides, the concept is just too poetic to ignore.

“An eye for an eye, bitch,” he growls, popping out the blade with a satisfying click.

The silicone is remarkably easy to cut into, and it makes a sound not unlike biting into a hard cheese. Cricket takes his time creating a perfectly sized hole, and with all the care of a sculptor working on some fine detail, he smoothes out the edges as best he can until Dennis is gazing back at him through one lifeless, glassy eyeball.

If Cricket was hard before, he’s just about ready to blow right now as he regards his handiwork, and without further ado, he eases himself into fake-Dennis’ new orifice with a grunt. Up the way, Toothless Jones is servicing another lucky patron, but Cricket’s attention is focused solely on Dennis and that one remaining eye – all the better to see what Cricket is doing to the supercilious prick.

Due to the crude nature of the new opening, it’s a sensation not unlike a ribbed condom – and added to the sheer wanton immorality of the deed itself, it feels more than incredible. It’s fucking transcendent. Christ though, he wishes those shrooms had been legit. With any luck the doll would be talking to him right now, perhaps even screaming, or begging for forgiveness. _“Please, Matty. I’m sorry for everything. I’ll do anything you want. Just please don’t-”_

It doesn’t matter; this is working just fucking fine. Cricket grips the back of Dennis’ head with one hand, pressing him further, further still, while the other hand claws at the wall with such tenacity the ends of his fingers begin to bleed. _Jesus motherfucking Christ, you deserve this._

He finds himself picturing a better world, a righteous alternate reality in which Dennis is the one reduced to humiliating himself on the streets. Unshaven and unkempt, half-blind and half-burned Dennis Reynolds sucking dick after dick, pleading with his assailants for a lousy hit to see him through to the morning. His skin pallid, his eyes wide and fearful, his knees dirty and raw, and the begging, _fuck,_ the begging… Cricket can practically hear that pathetic whine over his own vulgar moans of satisfaction. Perhaps, feeling as though there’s nobody left to turn to, vagabond-Dennis would give confession, and Reverend Matthew Mara would tell him: _“I’m sorry, my son. God has forsaken you. There’s simply no hope, and there’s nothing for you here.”_

“Motherfuck-” Cricket groans, slamming the palm of his free hand against the rough brick wall.

His pace increases, and every frenetic thrust into Dennis is one score for Matty Mara; one less bout of teabagging he’s had to endure; one less cock he’s had to suck to score enough to get him through the day; one less disfigurement brought upon him by the actions of Dennis and the Gang. He pictures real-Dennis viewing this whole sordid spectacle, his mouth agape in a manner not dissimilar to the doll, and he laughs. He laughs long and fucking hard as he hammers into the lookalike, and soon his euphoria evolves into ecstasy as he comes with an ungodly moan and fills the ocular cavity to the motherfucking brim. From the far end of the alley, Toothless Jones’ customer gives him an enthusiastic thumbs up. Cricket returns the gesture.

Sweet shitting Christ, that was fan-fucking-tastic. This one is gonna be in the spank bank for _years._

 

After cleaning himself up somewhat, Cricket cannot help but whistle a jaunty tune as he works diligently on his coup de grace.

It’s a goddamn masterpiece, is what it is, and Cricket all but clicks his heels together as he leaves the vicinity with a spring in his step, leaving imitation-Dennis propped against the very wall he was defiled – his left eye oozing milky-white tears and his own rubber boner protruding from his mouth like a fat Cuban cigar.

Every dog has its day.

**Author's Note:**

> You’re welcome.
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [Need some alleviation? A little respite? Click here for a panel of goodness!](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/179595482498/inktober-day-30-from-okimi79s-exquisitely)


End file.
